But don't
you see, by this wrath of the guilty-conscienced Sacks, that he had been
abusing me too? He has owned himself guilty, never having been accused.
He has winced when nobody thought of hitting him. I did but put the cap
out, and madly butting and chafing, behold my friend rushes out to put
his head into it! Never mind, Sacks, you are found out; but I bear you
no malice, my man.
And yet to be found out, I know from my own experience, must be painful
and odious, and cruelly mortifying to the inward vanity. Suppose I am a
poltroon, let us say. With fierce moustache, loud talk, plentiful oaths,
and an immense stick, I keep up nevertheless a character for courage. I
swear fearfully at cabmen and women; brandish my bludgeon, and perhaps
knock down a little man or two with it: brag of the images which I break
at the shooting-gallery, and pass amongst my friends for a whiskery
fire-eater, afraid of neither man nor dragon. Ah me! Suppose some brisk
little chap steps up and gives me a caning in St. James's Street, with
all the heads of my friends looking out of all the club windows.
My reputation is gone. I frighten no man more. My nose is pulled by
whipper-snappers, who jump up on a chair to reach it.
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